


they'll hang us in the louvre

by janteu



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23932459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janteu/pseuds/janteu
Summary: Arthur and Eames as the years go by.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 74





	they'll hang us in the louvre

**Author's Note:**

> a collection of largely non-linear ramblings about arthur and eames' relationship. title from the louvre by lorde.

I

Yusuf and Eames have been long acquainted. Saito knows this. He also knows that he is in dire need of a reliable forger, and that Eames is peerless in his field. On any other occasion, he would seek out Mr. Eames himself, but he has had little to no luck in doing so. 

Anyone who is anyone in dreamshare knows that there are only two ways to find Eames: catch him gambling in Mombasa, or go through Arthur. Saito has tried both, to no avail. 

So he goes to Paris and has dinner with Yusuf and Ariadne. He asks about Eames.

Ariadne, laughing, tells him that Eames is something of a hot commodity in dreamshare, to which Saito responds dryly, “Understandable,” and looks to Yusuf. “Tell me,” he asks, “what do you know about Mr. Eames?”

"Nobody really knows about Eames except Eames," says Yusuf. He looks up, considering, before adding: "And Arthur, I suppose."

“Ah, yes, Arthur,” says Saito. He’d spent the better part of the last two months chasing Arthur through Thailand, only to find that by week eight he had vanished without a trace. Arthur is the best at what he does, and the bitterness of having to settle for less than the best rests uncomfortably on Saito. “You are close acquaintances,” he observes, and wonders why he did not seek out Yusuf and Ariadne in the first place.

“Sure,” says Ariadne, at the same time Yusuf says, “Not quite.” Saito laughs. For some reason, he always manages to forget that those in dreamshare are guarded, private people, and that even the closest of friends are measurably distant. 

“Nevertheless, I am here to get help finding Mr. Eames,” he continues. “Have either of you any idea where he is?”

“Mr. Saito,” begins Ariadne, “with all due respect, Yusuf did just try to explain - nothing is ever  _ just  _ about Arthur or  _ just  _ about Eames.”

Saito is silent for a moment. “What is your suggestion, then?”

“You know what they say about Eames,” begins Ariadne, at which point Saito interjects, 

“Yes, there are only two ways to find Mr. Eames. I am aware.” He sighs ruefully. “The two of you don’t happen to know his whereabouts?”  _ It was worth a shot,  _ Saito tells himself, as both Ariadne and Yusuf shake their heads.

“Well,” says Yusuf, “if you really need Eames for a job that badly, you already know what--who, rather--your best bet is.”

Saito sighs again.

“A bit of advice, though,” says Ariadne, rather sly, “word on the street is that they’re more likely to accept a job as a package deal. Who’s your point?”

“Not Arthur,” says Saito. If Eames is sought-after, Arthur is no less than a legend.

“You didn’t think to hire him before chasing him around asking after Eames?” asks Yusuf, downing some wine with a short chuckle. Saito bristles at that despite himself.

Ariadne, sighing, pulls a fortune cookie slip out of one pocket and a pen out of the other, scribbling down what appears to be a number. “Call this number. Skip the formalities, if Arthur picks up, just tell him who you are and that you have a job proposal for him--” Saito eyes her skeptically, in response to which Ariadne holds up a finger and continues vehemently, “-- _ and Eames. _ ” She hands Saito the slip of paper warily. He glances at it briefly, memorising the number before he tucks it into his lapel pocket. “And don’t bother calling it a second time. He’ll toss it right after the call.”

“He will know you gave me the number,” says Saito. But Ariadne doesn’t appear hesitant.

“Exactly,” she says, and finishes her wine.   


II

Two hours later, Saito calls the number.

“This is Saito Akihito. I have a job proposal for you and Mr. Eames,” he says, as soon as he hears a slight intake of breath on the other end of the line. There is a slight pause.

“You are a man who knows what he wants, Mr. Saito,” begins Arthur, and Saito lets out a breath that he refuses to acknowledge as relief. “Give us two days. We’ll come to you.”

III

The job, as always, goes off without a hitch.

IV

When he is nine, Charles Eames Harrington loses his mother to cancer. In the next four years, his father remarries three times. 

At age fourteen, he leaves for London with a Shakespearean acting company. It will remain, for many years to come, the best and worst decision he has ever made. 

He’s got talent, the head of the company tells him, as he spends his days gambling and washing costumes. Instead of a legendary actor, Eames becomes an unbeatable poker player, but Eames will tell you that they’re one and the same.

They move from town to county to city, and Eames doesn’t stop winning. Every time is nearly identical to the first, which goes a little like this:

“What’re you doin’ round here, lad? No place for a ten-year-old, this.”

“I’m not ten,” he says, eyes flashing. He’s plenty aware of his height, but he’s not that short.    


“Eleven, then?” asks the man. The other occupants of the table laugh. “Where’s your mum?”

“Not here,” he says shortly. “Deal me a hand,” he demands, for the eighth time that evening. 

“Insistent, are we?” says the man, eyeing him. “Have you got a name for us, then, boy?”

He grins, sharklike, as he is dealt five cards. 

“Eames. Call me Eames.”

Two days later, on the heels of the acting company, he has fled the town without a trace, carrying with him a scratched poker chip and more money than he knows what to do with. 

V

The acting company falls into debt when Eames turns seventeen, and continues falling through the year. Eames starts forging artwork and passports, thieving identities, jewels, paintings. It’s easy money for a kid living life on the run, even though he doesn’t feel like a kid, anymore.

In 1997, Eames turns eighteen. He’s arrested for the third time in the past two years that July, the sun scorching even in London. Two men in dark suits come visit him in his cell. They offer him a military position in a new special ops program that reeks of corporate influence. Eames laughs at them.

Then he hears what the monthly salary is.

“You’ll get me out of here,” Eames says. It’s not a question. The men offer him a card. It’s black, with sparse lettering: a phone number, an address, and an acronym,  _ PASIV.  _ They tell him to pack up his things by the next day.

Within the hour, Eames is released from the station. A black van picks him up the next day and whisks him away to the world of his dreams.

VI

By military standards, the lives led by those in the PASIV program are luxurious - food and quarters are extravagant, and the medical bay is near empty but for the few patients coming in for regular check-ups. 

In reality—a funny word, Eames realizes, now that he spends so much of his time dreaming—the soldiers in the program are nothing short of miserable. 

When Eames dreams, he exists, just barely, under the sting of the hot sun and sand against skin. The expanse of red desert is harsh and unforgiving. Scorching days and cold, lonely nights, wakefulness and sleep blurred at the edges. Blood, sweat. Death, the stench of it swept away on the desert wind. The screams of soldiers injured by a nameless, faceless enemy pervade the thick air, a cruel song of agony. None of it is real.

Days stretch on until time is nothing more than a concept, pain is nothing more than a concept, but death has never felt more real. Eames used to keep count, after the first time. Every time he goes under it feels real, it feels like there might be a chance of survival, and before he wakes, Eames always thinks,  _ this is how I’m going to die. _

He never dies.

Every waking hour is spent wondering, waiting.

_ Am I dreaming? _

VII

It begins with a desert, a gun, and a leap of faith.

Eames has never been a believer.

VIII

Eames, and what remains of his unit, are left to die, bleeding out slowly upon the hot sand. The pain roars loud but his mind is silent, still with fear.    
  
When they're found, he still doesn't know how many bullets are lodged in his side. He is numb but for a dull, detached ache and the sweeping of sand into his eyes and mouth. A group of soldiers edge into his vision, nothing more than black blurs rippling under the illusory heat.   
  
He braces himself against the sand and makes an attempt—a fruitless one—to haul himself upright.   
  
"Easy, now," says the figure looming over him, an angel shrouded in golden light. He can make out lean limbs, a sharp jaw, dark eyes. Mouth set in a grim line.    
  
He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is dry and his jaw is numb. The figure grips his shoulder, cradles his head.    
  
Distantly, he hears the unholstering of a Glock pistol, feels the cool metal against his temple. He hasn’t enough energy left to panic when he realizes that he is about to die, a bullet in his skull—

He closes his eyes as he realizes that the hand on the other side of his face is crusted with blood, shaking slightly. 

A whisper on the wind, soft, vehement. 

"Trust me."

IX

"You've dropped something."    
  
Eames turns, face to face with dark eyes, a uniform, and a well-concealed Glock pistol. It takes him a second too long to blink away the memory of sand, stained red with blood, sight blurred at the edges.

"So it seems." He takes a long drag of his cigarette before reaching down to pick up a red poker chip. It is a token, a memory, something he can’t quite let go: remnants of a lonely boy, young and brilliant and full of deceit. A time when his best and only home was the poker table, his pockets full of winnings and his heart heavy with resentment.

There’s a similar sort of heaviness in the eyes of the man before him, a spark of something like danger beyond his bland facade. He is undeniably attractive, tall and lanky, dark eyelashes against pale cheekbones. Eames holds out his right hand, the other thumbing the poker chip in his left pocket. “I don't believe we've met, darling,” he says. “I’m Eames.”   
  
The man’s mouth curls into something beautiful, a tragic cacophony of disdain and amusement. "Arthur," he offers simply, shaking his hand once with firm, thin fingers.   
  
Eames grins, turning to make for the bar's game table. "Suppose I should clean out those buggers with the loaded dice, there, Arthur?"   
  
Arthur chuckles, shaking his head. A wayward strand of impeccably gelled hair falls to his forehead.   
  
"No loaded dice over there, Mr. Eames," he says, waving a dismissive hand towards the game table.   
  
"Really," says Eames, feigning skepticism. Arthur nods slightly. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you, then.” He offers his cigarette. Arthur takes it, dark eyes as intent as they were when they met in the desert dreamscape.    
  
"I suppose," agrees Arthur, taking a long drag, eyes remaining on Eames. He hands back the cigarette. "Besides," he adds with a sharp grin, "I already cleaned them out." He fishes a wad of cash out of his right pocket, then pulls a red die out of his left. He tosses it onto the table, and it tips one too many times, landing impossibly on six.

X

Three years after the Fischer job, Eames shows up in Paris. 

It’s early January, and the streets are frigid but the city is alive, every night a veritable carnival of lights under the cool moonlight sky.

Ariadne gets a call from him on a quiet Sunday morning, her eyes strained from glaring at her computer for too long.

“Good evening, Ariadne,” he begins, syllables smooth and even over the phone. No caller ID, no location.

“Eames,” she greets, checking the time. 2:20 AM. “Good morning.” 

“Morning, indeed,” Eames says. “Tell me, how is school? I hear Paris is lovely right now. Despite the bone-chilling temperatures, that is.”

Ariadne rolls her eyes. “School is going well,” she says.

“And that’s why you’re up at 2 in the morning on a Sunday writing a paper, yes?”

“Cathedral restoration sketches, actually,” retorts Ariadne dryly, before asking, “Eames, why are you in Paris?”

Chuckling, Eames says, “Quite perceptive, Ariadne, well done.” Ariadne waits. “They’ve lifted the warrant for my arrest,” he continues. “I’ve got to lie low for a while, this is the last place anyone would come looking.”

“Does Arthur know where you are?” asks Ariadne, blunt. She can’t be held responsible for letting Eames traipse throughout Europe right under Interpol’s nose.

Eames is no longer chuckling, but Ariadne can hear his grin over the phone as he says, “You needn’t worry yourself over me, Ariadne. I’m not going to break into the Louvre or do something equally as low on the Arthurian sensibility scale in the foreseeable future.”

“Eames,” admonishes Ariadne. There is a pause.

“Of course he knows where I am,” says Eames softly. “He always does.”

The line is quiet for a long time. Ariadne clears her throat.

“Well, you know where to find me,” she says. After the Fischer job she bought a little flat in the city, right by the school, a location other students could only dream of being able to afford. Eames has only visited once before, but she doubts he’ll find it difficult to find her again.

“I’m in Gonesse,” offers Eames, “114 Chemin de Fontenay. A little house, yellow door.”

“The suburbs?”

“A friend’s house. He’s doing recon in Mumbai for the next year, left me to look over the place while he’s gone.”

“Alright,” says Ariadne. “I’ll show you around sometime, if you like,” she adds, a bit hesitant. For all she knows, Eames could know Paris better than she does. Before he can say anything, Ariadne blurts, “I’m calling Arthur anyway.”

Eames laughs, then, not a small chuckle but a full belly laugh, the faint but unmistakable sound of him scratching his stubble caught by the telephone.

“If I could trouble you to pass along a message,” begins Eames, “do tell him that Paris isn’t quite the same without him.”

Ariadne pauses. “Sure,” she replies, making note of the way Eames’ chuckle evens out into something gentler, more fond. “So,” says Ariadne, “Arthur? Paris?”

“Another story for another time, Ariadne, dear,” laughs Eames into the phone. “Enjoy your Sunday.”

“You too, Eames,” returns Ariadne, but Eames has already hung up.

XI

If asked, Eames will tell you one of two versions of the story of how he and Arthur met: the sober version, or the drunk version, both of which are only a little bit true.

The drunk version is a 10-minute ordeal, over the course of which Eames stands on his chair, makes flailing gestural movements, and spends 3 of said minutes elaborating upon how Arthur’s ass looked in his uniform trousers. The story itself only gets more confusing the more Ariadne tries to piece it together, but what she has gathered is this: there was a bar, a gun, and a game of poker. Not necessarily in that order.

“It’s important,” begins Eames, seeming to sober up a bit, “to understand that he was the most dangerous person in the room.”

“Right,” says Ariadne, taking another generous sip of whiskey. 

“Not because he had the gun, of course,” Eames continues, eyes gleaming, “but because of his arse. In those trousers. That arse could kill a man.”

Ariadne sighs. “Right,” she repeats, pouring herself another glass.

XII

The sober version is much shorter.

“How did the two of you meet?”   
  
Eames chuckles. "He shot me, actually," he says. "In the head."

XIII

“Can’t sleep?” asks Ariadne, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. Eames doesn’t turn, only sips his tea and looks out the window at the dark sky.

“Can’t dream,” he replies, after a moment. “Haven’t since the summer of 1997. Really dreamt, you know. Naturally.” 

Ariadne swallows. “Weren’t you,” she begins, “weren’t you in the military then?”

“We were,” Eames affirms. He closes his eyes. “Elite international training, funded only in part by the governments running it.” Ariadne says nothing, even when the silence drags on. Eames takes a breath. “ _ Imagine what we could do with that kind of power,” _ they’d say. The dreams, they were all the same—we were dropped into a desert, armed to the teeth against an enemy we had no hope of winning against. They dropped us into that desert to die, each time leaving us without any knowledge that those dreams weren’t real. Day after day, hour after hour.” Eames turns, facing her. “War is an ugly thing," he says. "But it wasn't war. It was slaughter."

Ariadne stands still in the doorway, hoping to silently reassure. 

“I very nearly lost myself, then,” says Eames, “those hot summer months dreaming endlessly until nobody knew what was real anymore. There were shootings every week, soldiers dying at their bunkmates’ hands. Dream or no, it was still a bloodbath. Reality became a nightmare.” He shakes his head. Outwardly, he seems serene, but his eyes are haunted and his lips twitch as if he’s smelt something foul.

“What changed?” asks Ariadne, before she can stop herself. Eames’ answering smile is wry, pained, but genuine nonetheless.

“Arthur woke me up.”

XIV

“He saved you,” says Ariadne slowly, “by shooting you in the head.” 

“Precisely,” Eames affirms. 

“That is very troublesome,” Ariadne says, as she realizes that Eames has never lied about this, not to her. The truth is just far less glamorous than it once seemed.

“Ariadne, my dear friend,” says Eames, grinning slightly, “tell me, what did you honestly expect?”

XV

“Eames,” says Arthur into his phone by way of greeting. 

“Where are you?” asks Eames without pretense. Frowning, Arthur checks the date. The 18th of May, 2013. He can’t think of any significance. 

“Barcelona,” replies Arthur, “in the airport.”

“Wonderful,” says Eames, genuinely delighted. “What’s your schedule like?”

“I’m flying to London in the next hour,” says Arthur. “If you’re calling about a job, the answer is no, I’ve got to lay low for a few weeks. Our extractor in Marrakesh didn’t clean up properly.” 

“Unfortunate, that. If you can get to CDG today, there’s a little house waiting for you in Gonesse.”

“You’re still in Paris?” Arthur asks.

“It’s quite a nice house,” Eames says, as if that explains everything, “and I’ve found I quite like the city when I’m not on the run from Interpol. I’m thinking of stealing a Fragonard, this time.”

“Give me five hours,” says Arthur. “And please don’t actually steal a Fragonard, we’ve had enough trouble with the Louvre in the past as it is.”

“ _ I’ve  _ had enough trouble with the Louvre,” Eames corrects, as if Arthur’s involvement was actually a choice. “I wouldn’t dream of making your life more difficult, pet,” adds Eames smoothly. Arthur snorts. “One small request, though,” Eames continues, “do bring that lovely three-piece dinner suit. And check the French news, if you haven’t.”

Arthur has, indeed, checked the news. Eames will know this, no matter how he responds. 

There is a short pause, heavy even over the phone.

“That’s two requests, Eames,” he begins, searching for something to say.  _ France’s Same-Sex Marriage Legislation Ruled Constitutional,  _ the headline read. He hadn’t really thought about it overmuch that morning, with a flight to catch and a trail to lose. He’s thinking about it now. 

“Good thing you’ve checked the news already, then, so it’s really only one,” counters Eames cheekily. The undercurrent of nervousness in his voice is nearly imperceptible. Arthur lets out a laugh in a gentle whoosh of air, too quiet to be heard as more than a breath over the phone. Trust Eames to make this easy, so easy.

“I don’t even remember if I kept my French citizenship forms,” Arthur is saying before he has a chance to really think about it.

Eames laughs fondly, like knows what Arthur means without him having to say any of it. “You forget, love,” he chides, “I’m a forger.”

Back in the days when forgery in dreamshare was little more than a concept, Eames forged passports, paintings, letters, birth certificates. They were young, then. Driven mad by life on the run. Arthur supposes that’s when he began to fall in love—those years of running round the globe, passing life by in a whirlwind. He hasn’t stopped falling since.

And then Arthur is laughing, too, clutching his mobile phone as he stands in the middle of an airport in Barcelona, wondering when this—loving, being loved—became so easy.

In the next minute, his mind will be focused on finding a way to switch flights, but in this moment, all he hears is the mellifluous sound of Eames’ laughter blending with his own.

“Yes, Eames,” he says. As if there was ever any other answer. “I’ll bring the suit.” 


End file.
